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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27332713">bloom</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubleDerivative/pseuds/doubleDerivative'>doubleDerivative</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>nanowrimo 2020 writing warmups [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlet, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Songfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:22:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>823</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27332713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubleDerivative/pseuds/doubleDerivative</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunken promise, a revelation of feelings, and a chance at something good.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>nanowrimo 2020 writing warmups [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997458</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>bloom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>lines in italics are from bloom by the paper kites! (minus the little poem snippet)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> in the morning when i wake </em>
</p><p>Wrenching his eyes open painfully, Jon startles, for a second, finding a familiar face in front of his own. His memories of the night before catch up with him hazily, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Regrettable, but not in the way he feared. He quietly gets out of the bed, stalking toward the curtains to get a sense of what time it was, not knowing where his phone was and seeing no alarm clocks in ready view. Martin sniffs, rubbing at his eyes, and sits up. <em> Not quiet enough </em>. </p><p>"Jon?" he calls sleepily.</p><p>"I'm still here," Jon calls back, remembering the promise he half-drunkenly made last night.</p><p>
  <em> and the sun is coming through </em>
</p><p>Martin's flat is small, open concept, and cozy. And he's entirely ok with that, especially when he opens the curtains and the sunlight filters through enough to illuminate the whole thing without needing to turn any lights on. He delicately pours out two mugs of tea, handing one to Jon hesitantly. He thanks him, of course, but something seems… off. Martin prays he doesn't remember much about last night.</p><p>
  <em> oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness </em>
</p><p>The tea Martin made was always sweet, sometimes more sugar than actual tea. Not that Jon was complaining; he'd a rather sweet tooth, after all. This morning the aroma of it was unmatched, wafting through the air so thick he could almost see it in the steam. Taking a deep breath in, he let himself smile, genuinely, for the first time in a while.</p><p>
  <em> and you fill my head with you </em>
</p><p>Sleepy eyes filled Martin's dreams for the next few nights. His casual laugh, the way his whole body shook with it. To hear him talk groggily in that low voice he gets when he hasn't quite woken up yet. He longed to see those eyes again, to have Jon look at him the way he did that night for the rest of eternity. For Jon to let himself go, to laugh proudly, to wrinkle his nose at whatever dumb joke Tim makes, to smile with all his teeth freely. </p><p>"Like old times," Tim would tell him later.</p><p>But, surely, he was just drunk, so it all meant nothing. He meant nothing. Dreaming like this was a waste of time.</p><p>
  <em> shall i write it in a letter? </em>
</p><p>Flushed, Jon puts his head in his hands. The rest of his memories had lazily made their way back into his stream of consciousness, and he curses his own social ineptitude. Martin had confessed to him, exactly what he'd secretly wanted, and he'd fumbled his words so much he's surprised Martin didn't immediately leave the pub. </p><p>He'd never been great with talking, even less so with sharing his feelings to others. People just didn't <em> get </em> things the way Jon did, so why even bother? He was better at writing, for sure… The idea hits him all at once, and he's pulling out a pen and pad of paper before his brain can catch up with his actions.</p><p>
  <em> shall i try to get it down? </em>
</p><p>Crumpled papers littered the small wastebasket tucked next to the bed, lines of unfinished poetry and entirely scribbled out pieces of thoughts decorating them. Martin scribbles furiously, occasionally pinching the bridge of his nose in thought, before sighing frustratedly and adding to the ever-growing pile.</p><p>
  <em> Poets will envy the flow  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Of your silvered hair and weep </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For the lines of your body </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Can only few pace keep </em>
</p><p>Martin groans, setting his head down on his notebook.</p><p>
  <em> oh, you fill my head with pieces </em>
</p><p>The constant tea, the smiles, the flustered look whenever they were alone; all of it made perfect sense in that instant. Fragments of Martin's affections lodged in Jon's brain, only made clear when the man had finally had enough and said it plainly.</p><p>"I love you, Jon," he had slurred, far too gone to really care what the outcome was.</p><p>
  <em> of a song i can't get out </em>
</p><p>"I- I know- I know how you feel," Jon had stumbled over the words, too tipsy for the words in his head to come off his tongue the same way. The words rang in Martin's head as he sat staring out his kitchen window. He couldn't make sense of what it meant, how it related to how Jon felt. Did he feel the same? Or was he about to turn him down gently? He might never know.</p><p>
  <em> can i be close to you? </em>
</p><p>When they finally saw each other again, the beginning of the week at the Archives, neither knew what to say. They looked at each other nervously, Jon clutching the confession letter close to his chest. After a beat, he hands it to Martin wordlessly and walks away, trying to hide the burning of his face.</p><p>Martin stops by his office later, tears of joy streaming down his face.</p><p>"Yes, yes you can."</p>
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